


all is to be dared, for she is worthy of eternity

by sebbie



Category: Runaways (Comics), Runaways (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Diary/Journal, F/F, POV First Person, Self-Indulgent, Smut (ish), sort of poetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 14:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16578071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebbie/pseuds/sebbie
Summary: c. late 1700s to early 1800sThe following text is an excerpt from the diary of one Miss Nico Minoru. Her family and origins are unknown although many speculate that she is a performer from the Orient. She was a maid of the minor princess Karolina of Dean. Despite her family's urgings, the princess remained unmarried until her death. Herself choosing to remain unmarried, it is said that Miss Minoru remained a faithful servant to her mistress until their subsequent deaths. They died of old age a week apart.Although many historians speculate that this particular diary entry may have been about the princess, the academe have remained largely skeptical of this possibility.





	all is to be dared, for she is worthy of eternity

She is sublime. I knew this to be true the first moment I laid my eyes upon her. She is the living embodiment of what has been praised as sublime speech, of the orator’s greatest power to evoke _ekstasis_. To be with her is to be in such ecstasy that one find themselves utterly enraptured. If only her powers were such that they were mere persuasions—but they are not. For persuasions are controllable, they may be overcome, but she is rapture. To witness her is to witness grandeur, the irresistible might reigning supreme over the senses. She is, I tell you, the strike of thunderbolt that scatters and illuminates everything before it.

Her touch burns me and her kisses set my heart aflame. To love her is to face the wild powers of Nature. To make love to her is to gaze at the infinite vastness of the Cosmos. To be with her is abound with so many things, all at once delightful and frightening. I fear as much as I love. I love as much as I please. She seems to me a goddess bursting with vigor and starlight. She seeps into my skin and permeates my being with her very essence. Truly, it is wonderful to be so beloved by her.

She is simultaneously Sublime and Beautiful. Never mind those who say my claim is an impossibility; for only those who have never seen her true beauty will say these two things cannot coexist. She is Sublime as she is Beautiful. And Beautiful as she is Sublime. She is suffused with the greatest virtues and the gentlest temperaments, and neither of these things clash. Truly, I say to you, neither of these things are of lesser dignity than the other. Not when they are within her. She leaves me awestruck and breathless, heart racing and faint. Yet her touches and whispers are capable of calming me as much as they could inflame.

True, I could have contented myself with admiring her from a distance, but Love bid me closer as Love was wont to do.

She drew me near and begged me to familiarize myself with the curves and the slopes of her body, to drown myself in the constellations in her eyes, and to lose myself in the gentle cadence of her voice. I answered her call and she, in turn, traced patterns into my skin and drew out rapturous songs from my lips, weaving them into beautiful poetry.

If I dare walk away from her now, am I truly leaving her behind? Passion has permeated my being and she has embedded herself in my heart, distance and time could part us but I would still hold her near. Love would still dwell in my soul even if I were to admire her from afar. Admiration you could cast off like a well-worn cloak, but Love is the warmth bathing your skin.

Listen, then, of how desire coursed through my veins and tore me apart, these most striking and vehement circumstances of passion: my Soul, Body, Ears, Tongue, Eyes, Skin, all alien from myself and dispersed. In an instance—in a moment of yearning or gazing or touches grazing—I am shattered. There is an inferno setting my blood ablaze even as cold sweat breaks upon my skin. A word, a touch, a cry—and I am driven mad. A whisper, an embrace, a lullaby—and I am grounded. Between my legs I straddle the bliss of coming undone and the fire that she causes to bloom at my center.

I am shattered, but in my shattering I am whole. She is the North Star to which each fragment of my unbecoming draws near. She calls each piece of me to her and in her hands I become whole again.

What then if another lover pulls her away from me? Do I scorn this new lover? Envy them?

How could I? I cannot blame them, after all what man or woman or creature created by the Goddess could ever fathom not adoring her?

If she rebukes me to let herself be taken into the arms of another, what else can I do but go? Perhaps a goddess can only, truly be with someone who equals her in grace and dignity. And if I am but a mortal who comes undone at featherlight touches and goading whispers, and if she ever deems me unworthy of her love or of loving her—I shall leave her to her newfound lover, god-like and bursting with virility.

But all is to be dared, for she is worthy of eternity.

If the new lover is so divine and godlike, let them be so. They can match her in dignity and put me to shame with their grace, but what do the gods know of worship? For they are gods, they are to be exalted and revered. How, then, could they ever fathom the depths, the very truth of the adoration of the impoverished?

My tongue will sing her praises that no god could utter. I will lie before her, prostrate and bare. I will enter into poverty for love dares me to do so. I will worship her, kneeling and with my head pressing kisses against her center. And she will bless me, as she has always done. Of this, I am sure. For she has always found me, caught me, and given back to me the self that I left in daring to love.

The gods cannot worship as candidly or as wholly in fear of their self shattering. They boast of grandeur but never excess. They shy away from things out of their control. They cannot be where they cannot dominate. How then could they truly experience the sublime? How then would they worship her?

How, then, would they love her?

I am no god, and so I do not fear my self-shattering. I offer myself and my scattered selves to her. I am in _ekstasis_ for she is sublime and I am her audience. I would not rebuke indulging in her or of being indulged by her. I do not fear gazing at her golden crown nor at her brilliance nor at the endless skies contained in her blue orbs.

Though I fear myself becoming unworthy, she holds me tenderly and whispers the sweetest nothings into my hair, she places the gentlest of kisses against my temples. Love fills me. Love overfills me. I come apart and she gathers me in her arms.

This is how she makes me feel: a concourse of passions unbound. 

And so to her I say—

Let your fingers explore every crevice of my body, let your tongue partake of my sweetness. Make what you will of me: I am yours to consume and yours to replenish. I am yours until I come apart and yours till I become whole again.

I am yours—in quiet moments and in turbulent times, when affliction ravages our bodies and when vigor is bursting from our skins, when all seems hopeless and when all is well. I am yours from now until the last setting of the sun. I am yours ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> screw the intro. they were obviously banging.
> 
> idk. my friend told me to post this. she calls it smut as poetry (????) i actually can't write smut. also this wasn't even really deanoru at first. it was really just me turning my sapphic-cixousian sublime paper into "creative" writing. so yaaaay. tbh apply this to any ship !!??
> 
> note:
> 
> 1\. … my Soul, Body, Ears, Tongue, Eyes, Skin, all alien from myself and dispersed. (paraphrased from Longinus, trans. W. Rhys Roberts)  
> 2\. But all is to be dared, … (Sappho, trans. Anne Carson)  
> 3\. I will enter into poverty for love dares me to do so. (paraphrased Anne Carson, “Decreation”)
> 
> more notes
> 
> \- sublimity is just top bottom discourse  
> \- it's called SUBlime because people liked being topped


End file.
